Moe

"SEX ON STRIKE: New York writers confess to passion on the picket lines," promises the cover of Page Six Magazine. Oh goody, I thought, a little vicarious action! Inside, the pull quote promised, "I'm outnumbered by guys on the picket line — most of them straight — at a ratio of 20 to 1. Where else in New York do you get that?" And who better to author such a piece thanAnka, the woman "often credited as the writer who defined the modern-day sex column" as Wikipedia puts it. (And such a refreshing angle to the old "dreariness of life on strike story" wherein writers inevitably say depressing things like, "For writers, the difference between being retired and unretired is so thin you'd never know the difference") (The only thing more depressing than this job is the thought of being left to read shit on the internet all day for sheer lack of will to do anything else.) Anyway, onto the juicy bits. Since we all feel like we're getting screwed, we might as well be getting laid, the story tantalizes. And luckily for us, Anka finds a cute screenwriter named Bob. "Bob was funny, Bob was sweet, and best of all Bob was heterosexual and he wanted to have sex with me." Gimme more!

Yeah, so Bob turned out to be a premature ejaculator. A wayyyyy premature ejaculator. He never calls again, he is so embarrassed. Or immature. Most likely both.

And that's the end of the story. It's sort of like I imagine my life would be, if I ever left my house.